This is supposed to be funny, not offensive and certainly not 'hot'. It was written after I'd had one too many PWP's ruined by ridiculous euphemisms. It's N/I slash and very 'M' but in an extremely silly way.

With thanks to my beta TheRimmerConnection who has asked me to point out that it has ruined her forever!

The Euphemisms Affair

Illya hardly had time to slam the door shut before Napoleon grabbed his hands and shoved them down his pants and around his molten member, which was just aching to be satisfied. The Russian became more and more aware of his own hot, distended flesh as he worked his hands up and down the shaft of his partner's aggressive, magnificent arousal. Napoleon was yelling with delight as tremendous pleasure coursed through him from his straining erection. Illya dropped to his knees and slobbed the knob.

"You're unbelievable," Napoleon gasped, as excitement caused his truncheon to burgeon all the more.

His words inflamed Illya further so that he could no longer contain his desire to satisfy his own swollen staff. He took his hands away from his lover's virile masculinity and thrust him face down on the deep shag-pile rug.

"Don't stop!" Napoleon cried out, as he felt his friend's mouth leave his rock hard rigidity.

"It's all right my friend, I just need a spot of the old in and out. I can still pleasure your turgid shaft whilst I bounce the pogo stick and get my rocks off," replied Illya, returning his hands to his lover's pulsating manhood.

Illya plastered his luscious lollipop and Napoleon's slot machine in lube, then parked his car in the driveway and, for a moment, was worried that his iron-hard tumescence was so aroused that he might sell the wine before its time. He made a superhuman effort and controlled his wayward plenipotentiary instrument.

Illya continued to do the back door dance, getting extra pleasure from his chestnuts banging up against Napoleon's provocative buns, until he could hold back no longer and, with a loud shout of joy, shot forth his man custard.

"Now it's your turn to become a receiver of swollen goods, my beautiful Russian," panted Napoleon as he rolled his lover off him.

"We'll make a terrible mess of your shag-pile rug," protested Illya, laughing.

"Damn the carpet!" said his friend. "I can't wait much longer to pork the bacon. If I don't get my end away soon, the sprinklers will come on during the national anthem."

"Okay, okay," said Illya and turned over on the rug.

Napoleon greased his gun and his partner's gay-doh fun factory then pushed the hard pulse of his arousal into Illya's man-gina and began polishing the helmet while his lover got drilled.

"I love the way you sweep the chimney," gasped Illya, feeling a swelling in his loins once again.

Napoleon continued to cattle prod the oyster ditch with his lap rocket while putting his hands around the hardness of Illya's arousal and caressing his family jewels.

Napoleon felt his engorged flesh reaching the point of no return and rubbed his partner's rigid source of heat faster and faster with his hot, sweaty hands.

Their panting breath and shouts of pleasure were audible a block away, but they didn't care, they were so on for their greens.

Finally, they simultaneously, and at the same time, blew their wads and lay together, satisfied at last, as their man glue sank into the rug.